


Est in Aqua Dulci non Invidiosa Voluptas

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Lascelles determines to give John Childermass an unusual punishment. Childermass shocks him by enjoying it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Est in Aqua Dulci non Invidiosa Voluptas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt (<http://jsmn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1613.html?thread=1624397#cmt1624397>):
> 
> _**Childermass/Lascelles outright request for filth** _
> 
> _My trashy feels strike again! This is a complete and utterly shameless request for some Childermass/Lascelles pwp. You can make it as disturbing/dirty as you like, I just need these two getting it on._
> 
> _I will shower the person who fills this in various luxurious gifts, chocolates, flowers and all my future children._

Editing publications on behalf of Mr Norrell's cause was a difficult thing, for that man was never satisfied. He would read an article on a Monday morning and declare it good to print, but by noon on Tuesday those around him found that he had changed his mind and that he suddenly thought the article an awful thing which required many corrections.

Thankfully Mr Lascelles, who was in charge of editing Norrell's periodical, _The Friends of English Magic_ , was not the type of person to be obstructed by acquiescing to somebody else's wishes, not even if, as with Norrell, Lascelles happened to rely on that somebody else for his importance in society. No; there was one thing that Lascelles knew well, and this was that Norrell's thoughts on writing were almost always terrible (and worse than terrible: they were dull) and that if _The Friends of English Magic_ was going to have any success, then Norrell's inclinations should be ignored in most cases.

Yet, ignoring Norrell while not offending him too much was no easy task, and Lascelles found that he used up considerable energy and time in proving to Norrell why such and such a passage must remain as it is, and why this article or that could not possibly undergo any further alteration. (When this didn't work, Lascelles took to doing those things that Norrell disliked anyway and using various schemes to distract Norrell so that he would never notice. Unfortunately, this also took up much energy and time.)

All these difficulties meant that often the editing of _The Friends_ fell behind schedule, and that Lascelles (more regularly than he would like) found himself staying up until dawn making the final corrections before the next edition went to the printers on the morrow.

Such a task is often too much for one man alone, so sometimes (regretful as it was) Lascelles was required to seek another pair of hands to help. Initially the other pair of hands had belonged to Lord Portishead, who had at first been sole editor of _The Friends_ (not that it had ever stopped Lascelles from assisting him). But the more Lascelles had worked with Portishead the more Lascelles had disliked it. Portishead had a mild, indecisive manner (and even worse: it was a manner that was inclined to do everything that Norrell wished) which made him infuriating to work alongside. It was not long before Lascelles had ousted Portishead as editor in all but name, and shortly afterwards had resolved never to let him finish up an edition for publication again, no matter how much help Lascelles may need for that task.

As galling as it was, in Portishead's place Lascelles often found himself seeking the assistance of John Childermass, Norrell's servant. To be sure, Childermass was insolent, arrogant and altogether objectionable, but he was also the only other person who understood Norrell's aims and methods as well as Lascelles did himself. In addition to this Childermass was a hard-worker, had an eye for good copy and, what was more, understood as well as Lascelles did that _The Friends_ would never succeed as a publication if Norrell were allowed to have his way on all points.

Thus, for the sake of getting something done and doing it well, Lascelles lowered himself to accept the help of a man he so disliked. Often on the night before the copy was due to be sent to the printers, Lascelles and Childermass both would be found in the library at Norrell's house in Hanover Square working into the small hours. Lascelles suffered this regrettable (but necessary) occurrence by only calling on Childermass' help when it was absolutely necessary and by making sure to despise Childermass as thoroughly as possible throughout the whole process.

On this particular evening (or perhaps we should say 'morning', for it was 3 o'clock) Lascelles and Childermass had both been working in the library for several long hours. There were many pages and papers strewn over the library's various tables, and many empty coffee cups found amongst them also. Thankfully, the editing of the current issue was nearly complete: Childermass had finished the final article that he had been set to look over and had vacated his desk in order to slump in an armchair beside the fire and fall asleep; and the only remaining article was that which lay upon Norrell's desk, where Lascelles sat editing it.

As Lascelles read through the article and scratched his notes upon it, he would every now and then look over to the armchair, where Childermass was snoring, and would scoff very loudly. Then Lascelles would take a sip of his coffee and return to his reading. This set of actions happened several times, but no matter how loudly Lascelles scoffed, Childermass would not wake. It even seemed, almost, as if Childermass began to snore with greater intensity than before; almost as if it were done on purpose! (Though how one can do anything on purpose when one is asleep, I do not know.) Lascelles, never one to take modest measures in such things, began to grow very angry.

Oh, certainly, Childermass had dutifully finished every article that had been assigned to him before he had fallen asleep and, certainly, he had just that evening returned from an errand to Brighton and had been called into the library by Lascelles as soon as he'd come in, wearily, from the stables; but that was still no excuse for him to lay around in his master's chair beside his master's fire and fall asleep as merrily as if he owned the place. And to disturb a gentleman at work with his snoring!

Lascelles scratched a note on the final page of his article, crossing his t's with more force than was strictly necessary. Childermass, meanwhile, let out another snore. With a glower over at the armchair, Lascelles finished his article, gathered it up, and put it in a pile on the desk. Then he threw down his pen onto the inkstand, drained the last dregs of coffee from his cup, and put that down rather violently into its saucer.

Childermass, meanwhile, slept blithely on.

It was too much! Lascelles was both exhausted and furious. He knew, of course, that what he should do at that moment was ring for a footman, ask for his horse, and go home. But the little commotion that this activity would arouse would be too gentle a way to wake the snoring, ragged excuse-of-a-man by the fire. No indeed! Instead, Lascelles found that he would rather Childermass woke in the worst possible way: by having a bucket of water poured over him, perhaps, or some scalding coffee (if there was any left in the pot; which there was not). For a moment, Lascelles even entertained the idea of rousing Norrell so that he might come down and see how many liberties his servant took when he was not present; but the thought that Norrell would not enjoy being woken at so early an hour for such a purpose dissuaded Lascelles from that course.

With another scoff, Lascelles rose from the desk, attempting to quell his anger for the moment and making the decision to return home and complain to Norrell in the morning. Yet, before Lascelles could ring for his horse, certain comforts needed to be taken care of (after all, once drunk, coffee does not remain in one's stomach forever) and Lascelles stalked over to the cupboard in the corner where the chamber pot was kept.

Upon opening the cupboard, and upon another snore from Childermass, Lascelles once again found himself wishing he could give that man an unpleasant awakening. Oh how wonderful it would have been if the chamber pot had been full and Lascelles could have dumped its foul contents over Childermass' head! Unfortunately for Lascelles, Norrell's servants were diligent in their duties and the chamber pot had been emptied only a short while ago.

With a huff, Lascelles set the clean chamber pot upon the floor and began to unbutton his trousers. But he paused as a thought overtook him.

Oh, it would be just the thing to put Childermass in his place!

What thought had Lascelles been struck by? We must not, perhaps, judge him too harshly for it, for who out of anyone can think reasonably when they are as tired and as angry as Lascelles was at that moment?

For, you see, Lascelles found himself thinking that he might not have a full chamber pot at his disposal with which to wake Childermass, but he did have a means of procuring its intended contents, and why should that not work just as well? In short: Lascelles thought that it would be easiest to do away with the chamber pot altogether and instead take the quicker option of emptying his bladder directly onto Childermass' person.

Of course, making water over Childermass' person would not be an entirely neat affair, given that Childermass' person was at that point in very close proximity to Norrell's favourite armchair and Norrell's hearthside rug, both of which would not suffer well under a dousing of Lascelles effluence; but if Lascelles did consider this outcome it did not seem to disturb him greatly (and we must remember how very tired and how very angry he was).

In fact, Lascelles was so far from being disturbed by the thought of sullying Norrell's soft furnishings that he resolved to bestow his punishment upon Childermass immediately (and we must remember _here_ how very much coffee Lascelles had drunk that evening, and how a desire to let it out again was growing rather pressing to him).

It was with a smirk that Lascelles set the unused chamber pot back in its cupboard and shut the cupboard door, then stalked over to the fireside where Childermass was snoring happily on. Lascelles had not bothered to redo the buttons of his trousers and they hung half-open, so it took little work for him to undo the remaining button, and soon he stood with his trousers open and his private member out in his hand and directed at the snoring form in front of it.

This, then, was the moment when Childermass would get his just deserts; he, for the last few seconds, slept blithely on, arms folded, head fallen forwards onto his breast, and his legs stretched out on the rug.

Yet for all Lascelles' desire to befoul Childermass, he soon discovered that it was rather difficult to do so. (Indeed, have you tried to make water over a man sleeping in your friend's library when you knew you should not? It is not an easy business.) For no matter how pressing the need from Lascelles' bladder, he found that he was not able to make a start upon emptying it.

Breathing in, Lascelles took a firmer hold of himself and tried to focus upon his task. In doing so his bladder finally seemed to stir into action but only enough to let out a small spurt that landed more on the rug at Lascelles' feet than it did on Childermass' stockings. Such a small sprinkling was not enough to wake Childermass and that man let out another comfortable snore.

Oh, Lascelles was furious! To be thwarted so by Childermass, even in his sleep!

Anger, if you have noticed, does not loosen up one's bodily fluids, and Lascelles spent many more minutes with his piece in his hand and pointed at Childermass but unable to do anything with it.

Frustrated but determined to go through with the business, Lascelles set all his concentration to the task of calming himself down. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, and forced himself to forget about Childermass and the library; indeed, to forget about everything except for the press of his bladder and how much it needed to be emptied.

Finally, it was this which gave Lascelles the freedom he needed. He took one more breath, focused his thoughts, and began to urinate.

Oh how wonderful to begin! Lascelles, now flush with triumph, opened his eyes and set to directing his stream away from the rug (where it was making a sodden puddle) and instead up and over Childermass: thudding wetly over his stockings, his breeches, his coat and waistcoat.

Unsurprisingly it was at this moment that Childermass awoke. He snorted and slowly blinked his eyes open. Then, groggily, he curled his hands over the arms of the chair, looked down at at the spreading pool on his chest and up at its originator.

"Oh," said Childermass.

This was more of a shock than Lascelles had expected it to be and the break in concentration caused him to stop his urination mid-flow (rather painfully so) with the final few drops landing on the rug at his feet. And against all of Lascelles' best intentions, he found himself blushing.

"What..." Childermass' voice was thick with sleep. He looked from Lascelles to his own sodden clothes to Lascelles again. "What do you think you are doing?"

Lascelles drew himself up to his full height and tried to force himself away from the uncomfortable feeling of shock and back into familiar indignation. "How dare you fall asleep before our work is done!" snarled Lascelles. "And snoring away in your master's armchair of all places!"

Childermass licked his lips as he looked down at the armchair then back up at Lascelles. His voice was still thick when he said, "So you thought it best to piss on it?"

"You deserve no better!" retorted Lascelles, but an odd thing was happening: he was discovering that it was rather hard to keep hold of his anger when Childermass did not respond to it in turn. Because Childermass did not seem to be angry. He appeared to be surprised, yes, and a little wondering, but not appalled: not disgusted and angry and shouting. Instead Childermass was slow-moving and thick-voiced and his eyes... His eyes were darker than Lascelles had ever seen them.

Childermass licked his lips again. "Well, then?" asked Childermass. "Are you done? Or is there more?"

This calm questioning did far more to disturb Lascelles' composure than if Childermass had lept out of the chair and come at Lascelles with his fists flying. Fury and embarrassment warred with each other in Lascelles' cheeks, bringing up an even brighter flush than there had been before.

"I am _waiting_ ," declared Childermass, and perhaps he was more angry than he seemed, for there was an answering colour in his own face. Indeed, Lascelles had never seen him so pink before.

Still, disturbed composure or no, Lascelles was not one to let himself lose the upper hand so lightly. He sneered, "I will not have you speak to me in that tone," and then concentrated himself on meting out further punishment (which is to say that he focused his mind until he could start urinating again).

To make water onto the soft furnishings of a friend's library is no easy task, but it is easier when one has already paused mid-flow as Lascelles had, and Lascelles found that it did not take nearly so much effort to start for a second time. He pointed his piece at Childermass and concentrated until he had begun again, but such concentration did not stop him from noticing, in the brief seconds before the dam opened, that Childermass had removed his hands from the arms of the chair and had instead brought them up to clutch in the damp material of his waistcoat.

Such an action from Childermass was curious, but curious-or-no Lascelles was not able to stop for a second time and he let out a noise of relief as his bladder relaxed itself once more, the stream hissing out onto the rug before it was directed up and over Childermass' person: stockings, breeches, and those hands at Childermass' waistcoat.

Lascelles was not the only person to let out a noise of relief, for Childermass did so too (if such a shuddery gasp can be called relief). Childermass closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his lips together as his hands kneaded at his wet waistcoat. Then his eyes opened again (they were still so dark!) and he gazed, without blinking, at the stream pooling on his chest, at Lascelles' piece in Lascelles' hand, at Lascelles' face.

Childermass was breathing very fast.

Lascelles' breathing quickened too as, of a sudden, Childermass' curious actions finally coalesced into meaning in his mind. This revelation was so forceful to Lascelles that it was almost physical.

Childermass groaned as Lascelles pissed his way up to his neckcloth, and his hands continued to knead at his sodden clothes, his chest pushing forwards.

"You like it," declared Lascelles with wonder in his tone.

He was not the only one seemingly in awe, for it was with great, wide, dark eyes that Childermass watched as his clothing was soaked through: neckcloth, coat, breeches, stockings, breeches, waistcoat. Childermass groaned again and rocked his shoulders backwards. Meanwhile Lascelles' effluence seeped across Childermass' person like meltwater in the spring: rivulets running together to flood off onto the armchair below and drip down onto the rug.

"You are ruining Mr Norrell's library," said Childermass in his thick voice, not sounding as if he cared much about this outcome.

"What is that to me?" replied Lascelles with face very red. "You are the one who must clean it; not I." He considered this, as Childermass sucked in a breath through his teeth, and added, "You may lap it up for all I care."

"Christ," said Childermass, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he arched again.

Is it possible to imagine how this reaction affected Lascelles? His initial purpose in this exercise had been to see to Childermass' defilement and humiliation and to win Childermass' anger and indignation in return; but these he had not won. Instead Childermass' defilement and humiliation had shockingly brought about Childermass' desire. For one, such as Lascelles, who glories in another's subjection, what must he have felt to have had this subjection received with open arms? To have bestowed the most objectionable of prizes and to have had it accepted with rapture?

We may not, perhaps, be able to tell what thoughts ran through Lascelles mind at that moment, but we can mark their presence by their outward effect, which was thus: to drive Lascelles to become just as pink-cheeked and dark-eyed as Childermass was, and to persuade Lascelles' private member, being then the centre of attention, to grow proud and swollen with so much vigour that Lascelles found it quite difficult to keep his flow aimed down at the desired target rather than spraying up towards the ceiling.

Do not think that Lascelles was alone in this, for there was also a very distinct distortion at the front of Childermass' breeches (and indeed, if we had troubled to look, we would have discovered that it had been there ever since Childermass had woken warm and dripping).

Yet all things must have their end, and no matter how full a bladder may seem, the volume it holds is finite; which is to say that Lascelles soon finished urinating, and that he felt rather disappointed at the loss of it.

They both of them watched as the stream left Childermass' person and spilled its final few drops upon the rug. After which, the only sound remaining in the room was that of two men breathing heavily.

Childermass, for his part, curled upwards in the damp chair so that he could look down at himself and at his sodden clothes. "Christ," he said again, and he clenched his hands in his coat, and then his waistcoat, and then his breeches at the tops of his thighs. Indeed, it almost seemed that Childermass was so taken with this exploration that he had forgotten about Lascelles completely. With a shuddery breath, Childermass pressed the heel of his palm to the wet crotch of his breeches and his other hand came up to touch the backs of his knuckles to his lips as he closed his eyes (and how dark the cheeks beneath that hand!)

This was too much for Lascelles. Now that his attention was diverted to the swelling beneath Childermass' breeches he found that he could not look away. The heel of Childermass' palm pressed down further, Childermass took another shuddery breath, and Lascelles had no time to consider whether this were a good idea or no as he crossed the short space between them, pushed Childermass' hand out of the way and went to unbutton Childermass' flies.

"Fuck," said Childermass, taking in a very loud breath, but Lascelles was too busy at his task to pay him any heed. Childermass' breeches were so wet beneath Lascelles fingers! Sodden cloth squelched as Lascelles tugged the buttons open and exposed Childermass' private parts to the air.

"Oh," breathed Lascelles when he was done, and it seemed as if the entirety of his thought could be summed up in that sound alone.

Was it really so shocking to discover a man's private member to be proud and erect when that was exactly what you had expected? Well, perhaps it was. For while Lascelles had expected Childermass to be stiff (and we mustn't forget that Lascelles was stiff himself) he had not expected quite the degree of stiffness which he found.

Childermass was so very hard. Moreso, perhaps, than Lascelles had ever seen in his life. Childermass was not long, but he was thick and full, the foreskin pulled back and the round head exposed. And he was red: a deep, violent red that looked painful to the touch (far darker than Lascelles; far darker than anything Lascelles could remember). Imagine how it must have been for Lascelles to consider that his base actions had caused such a response! Indeed, the cause of Childermass' hardness was easy to see, as his parts and his thighs and the hair between them all glistened wetly.

Lascelles grasped Childermass in his palm immediately (hot, hot, wet skin beneath his fingers!) and Childermass gasped as if it were indeed very painful. Then Childermass surged forwards, clasped his own sodden fingers around Lascelles' grip and forced Lascelles to start stroking him at a fast pace.

Oh. Lascelles' breath caught in his throat. Childermass' member was so slick that Lascelles' hand moved easily, and Childermass' fingers on top of his were tight and wet. And such urgency in Childermass' grip! For Childermass did not act like a man who was just embarking upon the pleasure of having his piece stroked; oh no, he acted like a man who was far more gone than that. It was with a guttural moan that Childermass set upon their activity. He curled forwards even further, fast, hot breath beside Lascelles' ear, and his free hand clenched fitfully upon the arm of the chair, in the breeches at Childermass' hip, in Lascelles' coat-sleeve, skittering from one desperate hold to the next and shaking all the while.

Lascelles' was not impervious to such a response and his hardness and his desire grew fourfold; he ached to be touched. So it was with little thought that Lascelles rested a knee upon the seat of the chair and reached his free hand down to clasp around his own private member and stroke it, sucking in a breath through his teeth as he did so.

Childermass, it seems, noticed this action, for he made as if to lean closer and clasp Lascelles' piece in his free hand so that they might both stroke each other together. But Lascelles, while he enjoyed stroking Childermass through his own effluence, had no desire for Childermass' wet hands to smother his own person with it. And so before Childermass could grasp him, Lascelles jerked his hips away and hissed, "Don't you dare touch my parts with your filthy hands! I won't have you near me all covered in piss!"

For Childermass, this chastisement appeared to be rather momentous, and he groaned like a lost thing as he fell back in the chair, his free hand (the one not still stroking his own member with Lascelles) clenching in his hair as his hips rocked. He gasped, and then gasped again, and then surged forwards to drag Lascelles down with a hand at the back of Lascelles' head and so crush their mouths together.

Lascelles whimpered into the kiss (if such a meeting of open, clashing mouths may be called a kiss). The fingers holding his head steady were clenched wetly and painfully in his hair and Childermass wasted no time in pressing his tongue past Lascelles' teeth. Lascelles, for his part, met Childermass with equal force and there was for a moment a hot, slick pushing of tongues and teeth and lips, full-bodied and desperate.

Yet the kiss did not last, for Childermass' shaking hand soon let Lascelles' hair go and Childermass pulled away, back arching and head falling back as he gasped, "Christ. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," and ejaculated over his waistcoat (and over their joint fingers).

"Oh," said Lascelles. "Oh. Oh." He pulled his sticky hand away from Childermass and instead used it to brace himself against the arm of the chair while the hand on his own piece stroked fast and hard.

Childermass, who had slumped backwards in the chair with eyes closed, breathed out heavily through his nose, licked his lips and swallowed thickly. Then he sat back up and silently looked down at himself: at his unbuttoned breeches and his soiled, sodden clothes. His cheeks were still rather red and his eyes still rather dark as he took a hand and pressed it to the mess he had made on his waistcoat, smearing it slick and white across the dark, damp fabric. He bit his lip.

Lascelles made a choked noise, the head of his member shining red beneath the quick, urgent movements of his hand. "You are disgusting," he told Childermass, voice hoarse. "You are disgusting. You are disgusting. You are _disgusting_." He clenched his teeth and his body jerked forwards as, straining with euphoria, he came upon his release, spattering more seed over Childermass' waistcoat (and indeed over Childermass' breeches too, with some even finding its way onto the seat of the chair and the floor).

Breathing very hard indeed, Lascelles removed his hand from his parts and braced it against the other arm of the chair so that he might let his head fall forwards between his shoulders. He swallowed and stared, unseeing, at the stained carpet between his trembling legs.

Yet Lascelles' weary posture did not indicate a resting mind. On the contrary: as the wave of his pleasure receded, certain points were suddenly making themselves known to Lascelles in several alarming ways. Firstly, that he was damp in an unsavoury manner in several parts of his person: the hair at the back of his head, his hands and coat-sleeves, the knees of his trousers. Secondly, that some of Norrell's best furnishings were damp in a similarly unsavoury manner (and that if Childermass did not clean them satisfactorily, uncomfortable questions might arise from their owner). And thirdly...

Lascelles raised his head to frown at Childermass (Childermass! of all people!) who frowned back in return.

And in that moment, Lascelles felt more bemused than he ever had in his whole life.


End file.
